


their love laughs at locksmiths

by eudaimon



Series: Outlaw Bikers [2]
Category: Generation Kill
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:44:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eudaimon/pseuds/eudaimon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the reluctant President of Bravo 2 Motorcycle Club, Nate Fick's whole life is about control.  Sometimes, he just needs to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	their love laughs at locksmiths

I was still breaking my body in when you first touched me  
I know people will say  
We've thrown our lives away  
But is there a trail to salvation or salvation anyway. 

 

He wouldn’t go so far as to say that the Bravo 2 Motorcycle Club saved his life but who knows what would have become of him, if he’d kept up the endless wondering wandering of his youth. 

Maybe he’d have walked himself ragged.  
Maybe he’d have run out of land. 

He first came to Oceanside years ago and he was a Prospect within a few months - not his first hayride; he’d been involved with other clubs before. There was something strange about Bravo Two, though. There was something that didn’t always ring entirely true. Yeah, they got into the same shit as all the other clubs; blow, weed, whores. Manimal Jacks was just getting into making porn around that time. Ray was smoking as much weed as he was selling. Far as Brad could make out, Poke ran the legitimate business, the garage and bike shop. That was where Brad gravitated too, at first. He’d always had more time for bikes than he had for most people. Him and Poke got along well. After five years with the Chapter, the Sergeant-At-Arms patch sewn to his cut, Brad’s pretty sure that he’d die for these fuckers in a heartbeat.

But then there’s the President. Then there’s Nate Fick.

Nate knows his way around an engine. He can tune up a bike with the best of them. With he’s in the Club-house, he wears his cut and he shoots the shit, his wrists loaded up twisted leather and rubber, his Doc Martens worn and scuffed. There’s always a touch of reserve to him, an almost perfect quiet, and then there’s the fact that he gets on his bike and rides off to a totally legit, one-hundred percent legal job in a tattoo parlour on the main drag. He’s got a chair there, and there isn’t a man in the Chapter who hasn’t got something that’s Nate’s work.

(On Brad’s right wrist, right against his pulse, the longitude of the town where he tracked down his birth-mother, in case he’s ever tempted to believe that he came from something better).

And Nate seems to maintain a near-perfect ignorance of blow and weed and whores.

When business is slow, Brad spends time repainting an area of the bar. He manages to spill paint and, reaching for a cloth, finds Nate already at his elbow. In a wifebeater, Nate’s arms seem almost luminous, the black lines and ink-bright colours of his sleeves. Over five years, Brad’s watched Nate put his tattoos together, a piece at a time. It’s been like watching him become more surely himself. There are women’s faces and birds and reaching hands.

It’s been kind of fucking beautiful.

Nate’s left his bracelets discarded on the table where he’s been sitting reading Foucault and there are angry bruises on his wrists, just past where his tattoos ends. They do not touch often, not sober (he carries Nate to bed, sometimes) but now he reaches out and grazes his fingers against Nate’s skin. He watches Nate’s eyelashes flicker, coppery in the slanting light.

“What did you do?” Brad asks, quietly.

Nate smiled and tugged his arm away. The frayed cuff of his hoodie was tagged back into place.

“It’s nothing, Brad,” he said, turning back to his book on the table. “Hazards of love.”

*

The party was in full force and Brad leans back against the wall, watching it happen. He held a beer in his hand, half-drunk, lukewarm, resting against his thigh. In the booth next to him, Ray and Walt were sitting side by side. Brad watched as Ray’s fingers trailed up the seam pressed against Walt’s inner thigh and then he looked away. When he looked back, Ray’s hand was back in his lap like it had never been anywhere else.

In the middle of the room, Nate was dancing with a skinny girl Brad didn’t recognise. He held her close with one arm around her middle; her ass was pressed snug against his cock. Brad watched Nate’s expression as she ground back against him. Nate turned his head, his nose brushing her Technicolor hair. The curve of one hand grazed over her tit, squeezed, lifted. Nobody was watching but Brad, but it wasn’t like anyone gave a shit, not when it was barely a week since Manimal got a blow-job in the office in the middle of the day. 

Poke’s reaction when he walked in? Definitely one for the history books.  
It would, of course, have been a different story if it had been Walt in the corner and Ray on his knees.

The girl squirms in Nate’s arms, turning to catch his face with both hands before she leans in for a sloppy, off-centre kiss.

Brad cleared his throat and looked away, took a swallow of his warm beer.

“Sex is a beautiful, natural thing, dog,” said Poke at his elbow. “It’s good for him. Kid’s laced so tight it’s a wonder he don’t split. Lettin’ off a little steam’s got to be good, man.” He raised a beer in a toast to Nate Fick’s apparent sex-life. “It’s all good.”

Brad finished his own beer and went to collect discarded bottles.

He ended up sitting at the bar, listening to everything winding down behind him. He had a whiskey in a glass, turning it this way and that, not drinking it.

“Are you drunk?” said a low voice behind him.  
“Not really.”  
“I wish I was drunk.”

Slowly, Brad swivelled on the stool and saw Nate standing there. His hands were hanging loosely at his side, his jeans were riding low on his hips and Brad found his eyes drawn there, to the sliver of tan skin between denim and the thin stuff of Nate’s white undershirt. Brad caught a glimpse of the Bravo 2 insignia tattooed on Nate’s belly, stark lines in black. Not for the first time, he caught himself wanting to lean in and brush it with his lips.

He swallowed. He reined himself in.

“You want me to get you a beer?”

Nate shook his head, stepping closer, crowding in until he was so close that his t-shirt brushed against Brad’s arm, close enough that Brad could smell that scent on his skin. He wasn’t wearing aftershave; he smelled clean, newly showered. Brad glanced up. Nate’s hair was wet, brushed back from his forehead.

Brad caught himself wandering what Nate had showered off.

“No,” Nate said. “I don’t want you to get me a fucking beer.”

Brad was almost holding his breath as he reached out. His hand curled around Nate’s hip. His thumb twitched, brushing against the tattoo on Nate’s skin. Above him, he heard Nate’s breath catch.

“Where do the bruises come from?” he asked. He glanced up and found Nate watching him. In the dim bar, his eyes were wide and dark. Nate shifted closer. Brad slid his whole hand under flimsy cotton, pressed his palm against the small of Nate’s back. He leaned forward and pressed his lips against the flat of Nate’s belly. Finally.

“People doing things I asked them to,” said Nate, and Brad felt it through against mouth when Nate’s breathing was shaking on the exhale. “People who weren’t you.”

He shoved at Nate’s t-shirt until he could get it up out of the way, tip of his tongue tracing against the club insignia, crossed bones and skull and stars. His hand strayed down over Nate’s ass and he couldn’t shake the feeling that, somehow, they’d been building up to this for five years and, at some point, he’d need to find that girl and thank her for whatever edge she finally pushed Nate over.

“You want it to be me?” he asked, sucking lightly on Nate’s belly, working his way to the trail of sparse hair leading down into his jeans. He brushed the dip of Nate’s navel with the tip of his nose. Nate’s fingers skated over Brad’s short shaved hair and down, over the beginning of the ink on his back.

“Fuck, yes,” breathed Nate.

Fingers hooked over the top of Nate’s jeans, Brad pushed to his feet, almost bumping against Nate in his hurry to get to his feet, to pull Nate close and crush their mouths together.

It occurred to him how dangerous it was, to be doing this in the middle of the club-house.  
It occurred to him that he didn’t give a shit.

 

*

“I just want…” Nate said and then he hesitated, his mouth trembling against Brad’s. “I just want to not have to be in control for five minutes at a fucking time.”

And Brad knew about that. He knew about how much Nate held himself in check, about how hard it was for Nate to be the President of a Chapter he held himself apart from. Just because you’re born into a thing doesn’t mean you love it.

He cradled Nate’s face in his hands and drew him in for a softer, slower kiss.

“Tell me what you need,” he said.  
He was well aware of the difference between ‘want’ and ‘need’.

Nate leaned in closer, pressed against Brad from chest to toe.

“I want to not think for a while,” he murmured. “I want to get out of my skin.”

Brad took hold of Nate’s hand, bringing it up. He brushed his fingers against his wrist. His eyebrow arched.

“Handcuffs?” he asked, hazarding a guess.  
Swallowing, Nate nodded.

“You like that?” he said, head tilted slightly, reaching down to unbuckle Nate’s belt, tugging it through the loops one by one.

Nate nodded again.  
“What else do you like?” prompted Brad.

Nate’s eyes were on his face, clear and level, the soft green of still water.

“Pain, a little,” he said. “I like to be fucked so hard I can’t think about anything else.”

Brad pulled away a little, stretching Nate’s worn belt between his hands.

“I can do that,” he said. “Take your clothes off for me, Nate.”

He sat on the foot of the bed and watched as Nate toed out of his loosely laced boots. He wrapped his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt and started to drag it up over his head. The sleeve tattoos, Brad was familiar with. He’d watched Nate working on his bike stripped to the waist often enough to know the stars and the words across his spine intimately. He knew the club insignia, the bleeding heart on his chest. Nate didn’t make a show of it, but he went slow, made sure that Brad’s eyes were on him as he started on his jeans.

Brad couldn’t look away.

When Nate pushed his black cotton underwear down over his hipbones, Brad stood up again, tugging Nate in closer, bare skin against denim and cotton. He kissed him hard, pressing his tongue into his mouth, deepening the kiss and Nate squirmed against him. Brad could feel how hard he was.

“On the bed,” he said, lips grazing against Nate’s. “Hands on the frame.”

He took his time, watching Nate settle on the bed, on his knees, arms stretched out in front of him. Head down. Brad bent down and wrapped Nate’s belt around his wrists, careful not to wrap it tight enough to hurt but snug enough that Nate could feel it. He leaned in and snagged a kiss, left Nate’s lips damp and parted.

“Sure?” he asked.  
Nate’s eyelids fluttered and he smiled.

“Absolutely. There’s lube and condoms in the dresser.”

He stripped off his shirt as he crossed the room, dropped it on the floor. He rifled through Nate’s drawers, touching weed and pens and rosary beads. He came back to the bed with the necessary, paused to take off his boots but stayed in his jeans. He got up on the bed behind Nate, dropped a trail of kisses down his spine.

“How much do you want it?”

Nate shifted his hips, squirming a little against the curve of Brad’s body.

“So fucking much,” he said. “Please.”

Shifting backwards, Brad ran one hand over Nate’s ass before he bought his palm down, hard. Nate’s hips shifted backwards. He gasped. Brad slapped him again, hard enough to leave a perfect handprint on pale skin.

The sound that Nate makes was definitely a moan.  
He wasn’t lying when he said he liked pain, a little.

Brad took his time getting Nate ready. He slicked his fingers and worked them deep into Nate’s body, scissored and stretched until he was squirming and moaning. Brad slapped him again with his free hand.

“You’re going to have to be quieter than that, Nate,” he murmured. “You’re going to get us both killed.”

“So gag me before you fuck me,” said Nate, breathless. And there he was, that bright dangerous boy who was strong enough to hold a whole Chapter in check and had the nerve to make them all fucking love him, too. And maybe Brad was starting to understand that Nate had been so in control for his whole life that, maybe, he had to find a way to let that go.

He cast around for something to gag Nate with, picked up a bandana that was looped around the bedframe. Nate parted his lips willingly. Brad didn’t tie the knot too tightly.

His jeans pushed down around his thighs, he curled his fingers around his dick and squeezed, tried to find his centre. He brushed the head of his dick down the cleft of Nate’s ass, against his asshole, felt him shift and push back. He mumbled through the gag.

Brad pushed into him slowly, one inch at a time. 

For a moment, they were still, Brad’s chest against Nate’s back, pressed together all the way down. Brad mouthed against the muscle of Nate’s shoulder, his hands against Nate’s sides. He traced his fingers against Nate’s ribs; he shoved down the desire to know every single inch of Nate Fick, inside and out.

He put his head down and fucked Nate as hard as he could. He thrust hard enough to rock Nate forward on his knees, hard enough to knock the bed-frame against the wall. He just hoped that if anyone happened to be listening, they didn’t see that fucking dancing girl leave.

He was amazed by how quickly it all started to unravel. His rhythm fell apart; his hands tightened on Nate’s hips, holding him still while he drove into him. He felt the trembling start in Nate’s limbs just before he came so hard that he couldn’t keep his eyes open, couldn’t do anything but hold onto Nate and ride it out. He reached for Nate’s dick, curling his fingers around him and jerking him firm and fast. He was still hard enough to stay inside him. Nate trembled and shook, head down, breath sobbing against the fabric in his mouth until he came, hot and slick over Brad’s fingers and his belly and the sheets.

For a moment, they stayed like that, clinging together.

Brad kissed the nape of Nate’s neck and then pulled away with him, dealing with the condom before he shifted to loosen the leather around Nate’s wrists, to pull the damp fabric out of his mouth. When Nate kissed him, it was gentle, edged with salt. Brad brushed his hair back from his forehead.

“Stay,” said Nate, his voice a little hoarse.  
“I wasn’t planning on going anywhere,” said Brad.

Nate’s bed was wide but they ended up curled in the middle of it; Nate on his side, Brad pressed against his back. Idly, Brad traced the lines of Nate’s sleeve.

“Tell me about this one again,” he said, quietly. He kissed inked skin.

“So,” said Nate, quietly, conversationally, one foot hooked back between Brad’s ankles, “my Mom’s family were Scandinavian, right? And my Dad was from Ireland. So I’ve got two Goddesses; Skadi on one arm and Morrigan on the other.”

“What were they the Goddesses of?”

He couldn’t see, but he imagined that Nate smiled.

“Winter,” he said. “And Death. Mom grew up in the cold. And Dad…”  
It made sense, in a way.

At the nape of Nate’s neck, under the curling ends of coppery hair, two words in fluid script. It was Nate’s own handwriting; Brad recognised it from years of picking up notebooks and filing receipts.

 _Semper fidelis_.

Brad closed his eyes and kissed Nate’s neck and it was all going to turn out to be a clusterfuck, all of this, but, for right then, neither of them had to be in control and both of them could believe.


End file.
